Divine Advice For Roy Moore

Dear DA,

I blame my wife for all of this. I sure as hell ain’t gonna blame myself. If she had only been 30 years younger and stayed that way forever, none of this would’ve ever happened.

I’m not admitting to anything, just like I’m not conceding the election, but why would I go around chasing teenage girls if I already had one tucked away at home?

We’ve always had our differences, my wife and me. Not only does she refuse to be 30 years younger and stay that way, she’s also into cock and I’m into vagina. I’m afraid that might be too much of a difference to overcome.

This is why I prefer teenage lesbians. They like vagina, too, and the only one happy in this scenario is me.

Anyways, what I need from you is to murder Charles Barkley. Not for my sake, but for the country’s. What was that boy thinking, talking up at a white man like me? America has enough problems as it is without that boy churning things up.

Sincerely,

Roy Moore


Dear Roy Moore,

You’re as hideous on the inside as your younger brother Michael is on the outside. The thought of you, the sight of you, the sound of your name—it all fills me with so much rage that I can barely contain myself. You make me question the faith I put in humanity to the point that I can’t help but think it’s time to end all this.

But I won’t. You wanna know why? Because I know that’s exactly what you want me to do, and I’m not letting you off the hook that easily. You zealots have been begging for the Apocalypse for so long, but fuck you guys—you’re going to have to keep on waiting. Anyway, I know you’d just blame the gays for whatever plague I release on humanity as a whole. The thing is, there’s just so many damn people in the world these days that it’s daunting to think about punishing each individual for all their individual sins. It’s just so much easier to punish all y’all all at once. Anyway, I guess I should thank you. And Mankind should thank you. Because you are so vile, so despicable, so worthy of my wrath, I will take the time to focus it all on you instead of punishing the entire group.

Now, my colleague “down south” has brought to my attention the fact that I’ve been taking on certain responsibilities recently that were originally bestowed onto him. He implied in that passive-aggressive way of his that maybe I’ve been overstepping my bounds, or at the very least, overextending myself. I reminded him that I have no “bounds” and owe the universe no explanation for my actions. Still, to his point, he exists for a reason. If you’re a regular reader of this column (and most of you zealots are), you know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re going to Hell, and it ain’t going to be pleasant down there for you. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun with you here on Earth first. For starters, I’ve just given you crabs. And by “crabs”, I mean the crustacean with the claws, not the parasitic insect. That’s right, I’m infecting your genital region with large shelled animals that will be constantly pinching your dick n’ balls. Every time you look at an under-aged girl, a new crab will crawl out of your asshole and attack your junk. That might sound delightful to a pervert like you, but believe me, it won’t be. I also just cast a spell on you so that whenever you look at your wife, you’ll see Charles Barkley. The most unsettling part of this for you is that she’ll still have your wife’s voice. And even though you and your wife never have sex anymore, I know you still share a bed so you can keep up appearances for the local nutjobs that follow you. So good luck with that.

—Jesus the Furious


Dear Roy Moore,

Well, the boss sure put me in my place, but it looks like he decided to throw me a bone. And, believe me, I am going to enjoy myself with you. For starters, I made a metal cast of Charles Barkley’s cock, soaked it in rainwater until it was nice and rusty, then wrapped it with barbed wire. Guess where that’s going? And I can tell you from experience, Barkley is huuuuuuge! But I won’t stop there. You know that horse you’ve been riding around town? Well down here in Hell, he is going to be riding you. You’ll literally be carrying him around on your back all day, but then afterwards, he will fuck your already widened asshole. Also, you will have to give the horse daily blowjobs until he comes sulfuric acid in your mouth. But maybe the greatest torture of all will be that you will be granted access to the Mall of Hell. Here’s a catch: all the teenage girls hanging out in the food court will look like 70-yr-old versions of your wife. And they will rape you with their shark-mouthed vaginas right there in front of the Cinnabun. And down here in Hell, the Cinnabuns all smell like Chris Christie farts.

—Lucifer the Jovial

Have an uncomfortable question? Need some advice about your deviant behavior? If so, then it’s time to pray. Email your question to ryan@skullislandtimes.com, and it shall be answered in a Divine Advice column by Jesus and Satan.

H. Seitz

H. Seitz

H. Seitz is the author of the Sci-fi novella "Iron Manimal" and a contributing writer at The Skull Island Times.
H. Seitz

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